“Here you are,” said the editor. “Your bag is in the office, Charlie. The door’s unlocked.”
“Many thanks,” returned Chan, and fled.
Holley looked up at the white stars. “Sorry you’re going, Eden,” he said. “It’ll be a bit lonesome down here without you.”
“But you’ll be in New York,” suggested Eden.
Holley shook his head and smiled. “Oh, no, I won’t. I sent a telegram this evening. A few years ago, perhaps—but not now. I can’t go now. Somehow, this desert country—well, it’s got me, I guess. I’ll have to take my New York in pictures from this on.”
Far off across the dreary waste of sand the whistle of the Barstow train broke the desert silence. Charlie came around the corner; the coat and vest of Sergeant Chan had replaced the Canton crepe blouse of Ah Kim.
“Hoarse voice of railroad proclaims end of our adventure,” he remarked. He took Paula Wendell’s hand. “Accept last wish from somewhat weary postman. May this be for you beginning of life’s greatest adventure. And happiest.”
They crossed the empty street. “Good-bye,” Eden said, as he and the girl paused in the shadow of the station. Something in the warm clasp of her slender strong fingers told him all he wanted to know, and his heart beat faster. He drew her close.
“I’m coming back soon,” he promised. He transferred the emerald ring to her right hand. “Just by way of a reminder,” he added. “When I return I’ll bring a substitute—the glittering pick of the finest stock on the coast. Our stock.”
“Our stock?”
